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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434068">28 Days</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight'>sweetestsight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, background frian if you squint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:32:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434068</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You can’t control fate—but you can give it a push. Introducing SOULFLASH, a partner of Match.com. Find your soulmate in just 28 days. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>*If you experience seizures or migraines, SoulFlash may not be right for you<em></em></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em><br/><em>Roger and John use a dating app to rush the process of fate. It goes about as well as expected.</em></em><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Deacon/Roger Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Meant To Be: The Soulmate Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>28 Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Valentine's Day everybody!</p>
<p>This work is brought to you by the Clog Factory soulmate challenge &lt;3 Special thanks to IvyYara for betaing! grahamcockroach has made some gorgeous art as well, which is imbedded as links in the fic--make sure to click them when you come across them! </p>
<p>As always, shoutout to Clog Factory for all the love and support; y'all are the best! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <em>You can’t control fate—but you can give it a push. Introducing SOULFLASH, a partner of Match.com. Find your soulmate in just 28 days. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>*If you experience seizures or migraines, SoulFlash may not be right for you</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><a href="https://grahamcockroach.tumblr.com/post/643134475944017920/art-for-sweetestsight-and-ivyyara">Roger stares at the screen blankly.</a> It features a photo of a smiling straight couple. The man is hugging the woman from behind and gazing into her eyes, both of them laughing. A sun is rising behind them. </p>
<p>“Oh, just do it, Rog,” Freddie says, clapping his hands around Roger’s shoulders. “What do you have to lose?” </p>
<p>“My dignity?” Roger mutters. He fiddles with the piece of cardstock onto which the coupon code is written. “My freedom?” </p>
<p>“That’s bullshit. You’ve wanted to find your soulmate since—"</p>
<p>“That doesn’t mean this is a guarantee! It could be a massive waste of time.” </p>
<p>“At least you won’t be paying twenty quid a month for it.” </p>
<p>Roger tilts his head, fiddling with the cardstock between his fingers. “I thought you would want to use this yourself.” </p>
<p>Freddie waves a hand. “I’m not pressed.” </p>
<p>“You’re not pressed,” Roger echoes, skeptical. </p>
<p>“No. And I know you’re avoiding the inevitable, so you might as well just go ahead and click the damn button before we get stuck here all night.” </p>
<p>“I just don’t understand why it has to be <em>me,</em>” Roger whines. </p>
<p>Freddie looks at him, unimpressed. “Roger,” he says, “we just want you to find love.” </p>
<p>“You don’t <em>just—”</em></p>
<p>“And also to live vicariously through you.” </p>
<p>Roger frowns. </p>
<p>He and Brian <em>have</em> been wanting him to find love for forever now; that much is true. Roger thinks, in a vindictive little back-corner of his brain, that they really just want him to find his soulmate so that he’ll stop bringing people home. The hookups are one thing, but Roger is also pretty sure they’re tired of the formal sit-down dinners with his various beaus of the month.</p>
<p>They should be honored, if anything; they’re as close as he has to a family in London. The dinners certainly aren’t kind on his wallet, though.</p>
<p>Despite his own skepticism, he does truly believe that deep down it comes from a good place. Freddie and Brian want him to be happy. They’re good friends. He just wishes they’d do something normal for him, like set him up on a blind date. Trying to match him with his soulmate is a bit much.</p>
<p>He bites his tongue, entering the information from the little piece of cardstock and clicking the button to join the meeting. The screen loads for a brief moment before counting down from three, and then he blinks rapidly as the call starts.</p>
<p>He understands the migraine warning now. Faces are flashing across the screen so quickly he doesn’t even have time to take in their features. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut against it, but that would probably defeat the purpose of this. </p>
<p>“You know,” Roger tells Freddie casually, still staring at the screen so intently he can feel his eyes begin to water, “the 28 days isn’t actually a guarantee. They say about 30% find their matches within 28 days, but the truth is most people give up after that amount of time. I mean, what are the chances that I really find someone?” </p>
<p>“When you’re looking into the eyes of ten people per second I’d say the chances aren’t as low as you think,” Freddie replies. “Have you seen them yet?” </p>
<p>“No,” Roger says. He wants to roll his eyes, but watching the faces flash across the screen has become strangely hypnotizing. “Of course I haven’t. You think I would be sitting here talking to you if I had? Besides, what I was about to say is they don’t mean 28 days in the first place. They mean 28 <em>straight</em> days. That’s—that’s like 800 hours or something.” </p>
<p>“Six hundred and seventy-two,” Freddie corrects him. “It says so on the pamphlet.” </p>
<p>“Does it?” </p>
<p>“It’s in the fine print. Do you think you could stare at that for six hundred and seventy two hours?” </p>
<p>Roger doesn’t answer. Roger <em>can’t </em>answer. </p>
<p>The world around him has shifted. It changed, just like that. He always thought that it would come with a burst of feeling or of sound, for some reason—some inherent knowledge that everything is now different. He thought it would feel like his life is about to start. </p>
<p>It doesn’t. It’s just different. Everything is different now, and it’s overwhelming. </p>
<p>The faces on the screen are different. The screen itself is tinged with a strange glow he’s never noticed before, and he doesn’t like the way it contrasts with the light in the room. The light—everything is so <em>full</em> all at once. He feels dizzy. He feels sick. </p>
<p>“Roger?” Freddie asks, concerned. </p>
<p>“I,” he starts, and then gestures at the screen. “Something happened.” </p>
<p>Freddie stares at him, wide-eyed. His eyes are so hard to look away from; they’re deep now, full of life and variation Roger has never seen before. This must be what Brian sees when he looks at him; this must be why he can never seem to look away. </p>
<p>“You look different,” is all Roger manages to say. </p>
<p>Freddie’s pretty eyes practically bug out of his skull. “Holy shit, did you see them?!” </p>
<p>“I think so,” Roger breathes. “I—” </p>
<p>“Roger, you have to push the button!” </p>
<p>“What?” </p>
<p>“The button!” Freddie screeches, gesturing at the screen. “That’s the whole point! That’s how you get matched!” </p>
<p>“Oh,” Roger says, and right, the <em>button.</em> He lunges for the computer, wiggling the mouse a few times before moving it toward the large heart-shaped button in the corner with shaking fingers. <em>The button. </em></p>
<p>The screen freezes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Enjoying your trial?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We had so much fun showing you around! If you liked our service, please sign up for a full membership to continue. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We’ll see you around, Brian May!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roger stares at it. “Where’d the button go?” </p>
<p>“It’s gone. Those fucking capitalist hacks—” </p>
<p>“Where’d it…” He blinks. “I—what am I supposed to do?” </p>
<p>“Sign up for a membership, apparently.” </p>
<p>“Fuck that, I’m not paying them. They can’t hold my soulmate hostage like that. What the fuck kind of service—” </p>
<p>“Just pay it, Rog,” Freddie says, rolling his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. I’ve seen you spend more on lunch.” </p>
<p>Roger huffs. “I don’t have twenty pounds to spare right now.” </p>
<p>“Then <em>I’ll </em>pay it.” </p>
<p>“I don’t want you to—” </p>
<p>“The solution is right in front of you and you won’t take it just because—” </p>
<p>“Alright!” Roger snaps. “Fuck!” </p>
<p>He clicks the button for membership options. </p>
<p>They both stare at the screen again. </p>
<p>“You <em>have</em> to buy a year…?” Roger asks quietly. </p>
<p>“Okay,” Freddie says. “So I have sixty-ish in my venmo right now. You, I’m guessing, have—” </p>
<p>“I have eighteen,” Roger says flatly. </p>
<p>Freddie squints at him. “Are you planning on paying rent this month?” </p>
<p>“Yes,” Roger huffs. “Dom owes me money. I’m getting paid tomorrow.” </p>
<p>“So we have—” </p>
<p>“Enough for rent, and that’s it.” </p>
<p>Freddie is silent for a beat. “We ask Brian, then,” he suggests quietly. “He’ll understand.”</p>
<p>Roger huffs. “Will he even have the money?” </p>
<p>“I dunno.” His mouth twists into something worried and unsure, and Roger’s stomach feels like lead. “Maybe we’ll have to hope your soulmate finds a way to contact you first.” </p>
<p>Roger grimaces. He takes in the world around him—the new <em>colorful</em> world, everything so bright and vibrant it hurts to look at—and privately hopes for the same. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If he was wishing for better things to come in the morning, it was done in vain. </p>
<p>The day dawns bright and sunny and beautiful, and his head hurts so badly he wants to die a little. It aches just to open his eyes, and not solely from the colors. He’s never had a migraine before, but he has a sudden newfound sympathy for everyone he’s ever met who has complained about them in the past. </p>
<p>He can add himself to that list. He drags himself out of bed, hoping a cup of coffee will help, but it barely seems to do anything. </p>
<p>He knows what this is. He’s a biology student. He knows the science: finding your soulmate triggers a chemical high in the brain with nasty withdrawal effects. The more time he can spend with his soulmate, the better he’ll feel—but he can’t spend <em>any</em> time with his soulmate right now, so he’ll be feeling like shit for a while. </p>
<p>Fuck it. He needs to find them, to end the bloody headache if nothing else. </p>
<p>He tucks his feet under the comforter, knees curled toward his chest, and grabs his phone from the nightstand. SoulFlash’s customer support number is easy to find, and instead of a dial tone his phone plays <em>How Deep Is Your Love.</em> He grimaces at the tinniness of it. </p>
<p>There’s a clunk as someone picks up. <em>“Amanda at Soulflash, how can I help you?”</em></p>
<p>“Hi,” he says, grimacing at the croakiness of his own voice. “I was using your service last night and I found my soulmate—” </p>
<p>
  <em>“Congratulations! I’m so glad you were able to take advantage of our 28-day guarantee.” </em>
</p>
<p>“Yeah, not really though,” he says quickly. “I saw them, but I haven’t been able to contact them. The trial ended right before I hit the button.” </p>
<p>She hums. <em>“You were on a free trial?” </em></p>
<p>“Yeah. I have the details right here.” </p>
<p>
  <em>“Can I have the coupon code?” </em>
</p>
<p>He gives it to her. </p>
<p>
  <em>“Brian May?” </em>
</p>
<p>“What?” he asks, then shakes his head. “No, that’s my friend. He gave me his coupon.” </p>
<p>She hums again. <em>“We really don’t recommend sharing coupons.” </em></p>
<p>“He’s already matched. He couldn’t very well use it himself,” Roger says pointedly, then forces himself to take a breath. “I just wanted to confirm who my soulmate is, if that’s alright with you.” </p>
<p><em>“Well, normally we offer discounts for people who found their matches during a trial, but since it’s not your trial I can’t offer that. I’m very sorry,” </em>she adds, not sounding very sorry at all. <em>“I’m looking at your account right now, and it also appears that we had four people find their matches last night. Five including you. I’m very sorry to say this, but—” </em></p>
<p>“They didn’t hit the button?” Roger asks flatly. </p>
<p>
  <em>“...No. No, it appears they didn’t hit the button.” </em>
</p>
<p>He stares at the wall in defeat. </p>
<p>What exactly is he supposed to do now? What does this even <em>mean?</em> His soulmate doesn’t want him? But they have to have been looking for a soulmate if they were using the service in the first place. </p>
<p><em>“Sir, if you’d like to sign up for a membership I can give you the call records from last night,” </em>the woman continues cheerfully. <em>“You’ll unlock even more of our great offers and discover new features.”</em></p>
<p>“That’s alright,” he replies, surprising himself with the amount of bitterness in his tone. “Thank you for your help. Have a nice day.” </p>
<p>
  <em>“You too.” </em>
</p>
<p>He drops his phone onto his bedspread, not even bothering to end the call. </p>
<p>He thought, despite himself, that there would be an easier solution than that. He thought they’d want to help. Isn’t that the whole point? </p>
<p>Apparently not as big of a point as all the money they stand to make. </p>
<p>He can hear voices filtering down the hall from the kitchen, hushed and muted. He’s pretty sure Brian is here; Freddie always invites him over when he needs to talk, and as much as he doesn’t want to talk about it with them, his coffee is once again empty. </p>
<p>He hauls himself up and heads to the kitchen, not bothering to acknowledge them when they fall silent at his arrival. They’re sitting at the breakfast table, their heads ducked together, their eyes wide as they track him across the room.</p>
<p>“Are you alright?” Freddie asks, watching him with wide eyes. </p>
<p>Roger grimaces. “Headache.” </p>
<p>“I heard this can happen, you know,” Freddie supplies. “It’s the body’s way of ensuring soul bonds last. You’re meant to want to spend time—” </p>
<p>“What, if I spend more time with my soulmate my headache will be cured?” </p>
<p>“Well, supposedly.” </p>
<p>Roger groans. “My body is an idiot. They’re not <em>here.</em> It’s not like I chose this.” </p>
<p>“They’re not my rules,” Freddie says defensively, holding up his hands.</p>
<p>Roger groans again, taking a seat at the table. Brian immediately rests his hand on Roger’s shoulder, worry written all over his face. </p>
<p>“It shouldn’t last too long,” Brian soothes. “At worst it’ll be a month or so, and who’s to say you won’t somehow find them in the meantime?” </p>
<p>“It’s not likely,” Roger grumbles. “I already called SoulFlash. They said everyone who pressed the button last night found their soulmates.” </p>
<p>“What? Yours didn’t buzz in?” Freddie asks, frowning. “What kind of person uses that site to find their soulmate but then doesn’t bother to connect with them?” </p>
<p>“Someone like Roger,” Brian replies dryly. “Anyone can make a mistake. It was probably just an error on their part.” </p>
<p>Roger sighs. “I hope so, but either way that doesn’t make them easier to find.” He rubs at his forehead as if it’ll somehow push the migraine away. “Are regular painkillers supposed to work on these?” </p>
<p>“They should,” Brian says, but he doesn’t sound sure. </p>
<p>“Let’s hope so,” Freddie says. “We have an audition later tonight. Don’t forget.” </p>
<p><em>Fuck. </em>“It has to be tonight?” </p>
<p>“Yes. We’ve already rescheduled it once. We don’t want to leave the poor man waiting.” </p>
<p>“Freddie, I feel like my brain is trying to swan dive out of my eye sockets,” Roger tells him. “You really expect me to play the drums?”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to do anything. All you really need to do is listen to him. If we like how he sounds we’ll give him a trial period and see how well he meshes then, alright? Now, do you want some of my migraine medication, or do you want to continue to suffer?” </p>
<p>Roger sighs. “You’re not supposed to share prescriptions.” </p>
<p>“I know that, Roger.” </p>
<p>“I’m in medical school.” </p>
<p>“You’re in dental school.” </p>
<p>“Whatever. It’s really bad to share.” </p>
<p>“Yes, I know it’s illegal. Would you like one or not?” </p>
<p>Roger sighs into the table, and Brian rubs a soothing circle into his shoulder blade. “I would like <em>one</em>.”</p>
<p>“Alright, just one. Just for the first day, and then you’re on your own.” </p>
<p>Roger nods, letting his eyes fall shut as he hears Freddie leave the room. “Who’s this bassist, then?” </p>
<p>Brian hums. “His name is John Deacon. I met him at a pub a few weeks ago. Do you remember?” </p>
<p>“A little.” </p>
<p>“He’s good. I haven’t heard him play yet, but he has a reputation. One of Tim’s mates knew him growing up.” </p>
<p>“You think he’ll fit with us?” </p>
<p>“With all our dramatics? It’s certainly a chaotic day for it,” Brian laughs, then quiets just as quickly. “I think he might.” </p>
<p>Roger hauls himself up as Freddie comes back into the room, handing him a pill roughly the size of his thumb. </p>
<p>“Let’s hope he’s as charming and talented as you say, then,” Roger says flatly. He swallows it dry. </p>
<p>Freddie’s face scrunches up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>John isn’t feeling particularly charming and talented today. </p>
<p>His mouth tastes like the carpet in the footwells of his mum’s old volvo. His eyes feel like someone dumped sand in them. He can’t even think of a metaphor for how his head feels. The only word that comes to mind is <em>ow.</em> </p>
<p>He’d popped two painkillers this morning, only realizing belatedly that they were definitely <em>not</em> the non-drowsy type. He practically snoozes through all of his classes, and judging by the concerned glance his Radio Concepts professor gives him he’s pretty sure his face is completely blank and glazed over.</p>
<p>He has to remind himself to blink. It’s bad.</p>
<p>By the time he manages to lug himself and his bass to the music building that evening he’s feeling slightly better, but barely focused. The brightness of the world around him doesn’t help. It’s hard not to stare at everything, and looking around too quickly practically makes him dizzy. He knows it would be accompanied by a massive migraine if not for the painkillers, and for that at least he’s grateful. </p>
<p>The door to the audition hall is like a beacon, and he pushes through gratefully. The heat practically of the building engulfs him, welcome after the bitter chill outside.</p>
<p>He switches his bass from one hand to the other, trodding down the hall to the practice room tucked into one corner and knocking sharply on the door.</p>
<p>“Come in!” someone calls.</p>
<p>The room is smaller than he expected. An old school desk is pushed against one wall, beneath a white board that’s seen better days. A drum kit rests in one corner, a few chairs in the other, a tiny little window tucked into one wall and overlooking the frigid, grey expanse of campus outside.</p>
<p>“You must be John Deacon,” the same voice from before says, and John turns to look at him. “I’m Freddie.”</p>
<p>Freddie is petite, dark-eyed and oddly quiet for a man who is apparently one of the most promising front men to make waves in the small world of London student bands. Brian sits beside him, giving John a tiny wave, and on Freddie’s other side is a blond man who looks about as grey in the face as the whiteboard behind him.</p>
<p>“You already know Brian,” Freddie continues. “This quiet one is Roger. You’ll have to forgive him. He’s a little under the weather.”</p>
<p>“Pleasure,” Roger says, extending a hand.</p>
<p>John takes it. Through the swirling, drowsy remains of his heavily-medicated brain, he distantly recognizes that Roger’s hands are rough against his own. His palms are heavily callused, no doubt from drumming, and John has a strange, sudden urge to trace his fingers across the lines and planes of his hands and map out each rough patch individually.</p>
<p>“The pleasure is mine,” John says, pulling his hand away quickly and switching his once again from one arm to the other. “Really, it’s an honor. You’re a fantastic group.”</p>
<p>“We’ve heard you’re a fantastic bassist,” Freddie replies, a pleased smile tugging at his mouth. “Would you like to play us something, darling?”</p>
<p>John nods, almost dropping his bass in his rush to get it out. His hands would be shaking if he were any less versed in playing under the attention of a crowd; nonetheless, time starts blurring together in the way it always does when he’s nervous, and between his anxiety and the haze of the painkillers the audition practically flies by.</p>
<p>He couldn’t even tell anyone what he played, when all was said and done. He has no idea. He can’t recall it, even as he traces the lines left in his callused fingertips with his thumb.</p>
<p>All he can remember is the blue blue <em>blue</em> eyes that had been fixed on his the entire time, hazy and observant and giving absolutely nothing away.</p>
<p>Silly, he thinks as he walks back to the bus stop. Silly, all the fuss they make about soulmates. Maybe color vision is supposed to make you appreciate your soulmate’s beauty even more; but if everyone in the newly-technicolor world looks the way Roger does, John thinks it will be a bit like holding a candle to the sun.</p>
<p>He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice. Of course he doesn’t; he’s exhausted, the medication still wearing off, and all he wants to do is fall into his soft bed and sleep for an hour or six.</p>
<p> Still, he’ll kick himself later for not noticing that his headache has disappeared entirely.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John awakes the next morning with a new sense of hope for the world. His headache lessened from the day before, he allows himself—however foolishly--to hope that the worst is behind him. Having a soulmate is shaping into less of a blessing and more of a condition, but the least his body could do is stop punishing him for what he’s already mourning. Life is bearable like this, he thinks to himself as he sips at his coffee. With all thoughts of his soulmate pushed firmly to the back of his mind and his headache lessened a little, he can almost pretend nothing of this ever happened. </p>
<p>Well, almost. </p>
<p>Colors are still hard. He can’t look away from the coffee in his cup—rich and dark in the center, a light brown toward the edges where the liquid thins. The countertop, once flecked in different shades, has apparently been a kaleidoscope of colors this whole time. Flecks of gold mix in with the green and black granite, the colors shifting every time he moves. </p>
<p>Who let him buy this rug? He thought he ran it past his mum, but now he can’t help but think maybe she was playing a joke on him this whole time. It’s…he thinks it’s pink, maybe, or maybe it’s orange. It’s hard to say. He’s new to colors, but he already knows he doesn’t like this.</p>
<p>Everyone learns their colors when they’re young, just to be familiar with them. His school taught him six, but it’s only now that he’s realized that knowledge woefully underprepared him for the world around him. Ridiculous, that there are only seven colors. It seems impossible. </p>
<p>He’s startled out of blankly staring at the carpet as his phone pings. </p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Roger Taylor</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Want to get drinks tonight? I’ll buy. I owe you</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John stares blankly at his phone for a beat, wracking his brain. He’d seen Roger yesterday—quiet, subdued, barely focused on his surroundings--but he doesn’t remember exchanging more than ten words with him. He certainly didn’t do anything to make Roger owe him. </p>
<p>Three dots appear as Roger starts typing again, and then a new message appears. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>I was such a prick yesterday</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John blinks, typing a response before he even registers himself do it. <em>You weren’t.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Will you hang out with me then? Come onnnnn</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John snorts. <em>Time and place?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>And that’s how he somehow finds himself sitting across from Roger in a cute little pub tucked away in a quiet street somewhere near Regent’s Park, Roger sitting across from him in the velvet, emerald green booth that’s almost aggressively surrounded with fake flowers. </p>
<p>He never really understood these instagram trends until now. Yes, photos taken with plenty of flowers and natural light are lovely in black and white, but in color? He feels dizzy. </p>
<p>If the flowers are a marvel to look at, Roger is another story. John didn’t get a good look at him, and now he’s glad that he didn’t. He doubts he would have been able to play if he had. </p>
<p>Roger’s hair is richer in the sunlight, some sort of half point between gold and brown that John isn’t quite sure what to call. His eyelashes are the same color, long and luxurious and framing a pair of very blue eyes. </p>
<p>John had spent his first day of color vision staring into the depths of the sky, lost in a trance. He’d appreciated it before—dark depths at the zenith fading to lightness at the horizons—but it’s different now. It’s all the easier to get lost in, now that he can see just how rich it is. He keeps getting caught up by looking at it. It’s so deep it feels like he could fall right in. </p>
<p>Roger’s eyes are a little like that, but warmer. They aren’t quite as endless; no, they’re finite, perfectly of this earth, just like Roger himself. John feels safer for it. If he were to fall it wouldn’t be forever. Roger would catch him; of course he would, and John would be more than happy to—</p>
<p>“So you said you found us through Brian,” Roger asks him, leaning his elbows on the rich grain of the table and giving John his full attention. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” John says, gathering his thoughts quickly. “Yeah, we met at a pub. It was by chance, really. He’s hard not to recognize in a crowd.” </p>
<p>Roger snorts. “I’ll give him that. You played brilliantly the other day, by the way. It’s my luck that you met him, really.” </p>
<p>“What, haven’t had luck with your past bassists?” </p>
<p>“Let’s just say I’m happy to have a functioning rhythm section again,” Roger says, about to sip his beer, then grimaces. “I’m sorry. You’re in, by the way. I nearly forgot to tell you.” </p>
<p>“It’s alright,” John laughs. “I figured you’d only be wanting to get to know me better if you were planning on keeping me around.” </p>
<p>“Who said I wouldn’t have kept you around regardless?” Roger asks, mock-affronted. “Of course there was no real decision to make, though. The others loved you. I think you’ll be brilliant, personally.” </p>
<p>“I’m glad,” John murmurs, feeling his cheeks heat. He fiddles with his drink. “Have you known the others long?” </p>
<p>“I’ve known Brian for a few years now. He’s been doing this the longest. Freddie came a little after, though it doesn’t really feel like it. He was around for a long time before he even joined the band. He and Brian have always been a little attached at the hip.” </p>
<p>John nods at that. He wonders, briefly, whether Brian and Freddie are bonded. They seem like they could be, just from what little he’s seen of them. The way Roger talks about them only confirms it further.</p>
<p>“A few bassists came and went,” Roger continues. “I think...well, it was more like seven or so.” </p>
<p>“Seven?” John asks, putting down his beer. “You’re serious?” </p>
<p>“Yeah. A lot of them couldn’t keep up. A few of them were the wrong kind of personality,” he adds, and then his eyes widen at the look on John’s face. His hand shoots across the table to drape over John’s own, and a buzz of electricity starts under John’s hand and races up his arm. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to scare you off,” Roger rushes to say. “I mean they were assholes. One was a massive homophobe. They were awful.” </p>
<p>“Oh,” John says. He can see how that would be a problem, with the whole Brian and Freddie situation, but it’s hard to really register Roger’s words at the moment. The hair on the back of his neck is beginning to stand on end, and he feels suddenly overheated. </p>
<p>“I think you’re lovely,” Roger continues. “I don’t want you to worry about anything.” </p>
<p>“I’m not,” John says, and for once in his very short, anxiety-plagued life, he finds that he actually means it. He sends Roger a warm smile. “Believe me. I plan on sticking around.” </p>
<p>Roger’s eyes crinkle. He pulls his hand away, leaving John’s hand feeling suddenly cold. “That’s wonderful to hear.” </p>
<p>John, for his part, just returns his smile. He picks up his beer, hoping that the cold will mask the way his fingers refuse to stop tingling. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They stay out for another two hours before Brian and Freddie find them. How they do it, John isn’t sure. Maybe it’s the other way around; maybe Roger knew somehow where he could find them. He doesn’t know, and in a way it doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>The point is they stay out long past the reasonable hours of the evening, wandering from pub to pub, and John finds himself ending the night on Freddie and Roger’s sofa. </p>
<p>“Do you need anything?” Roger whisper-shouts for the umpteenth time. Brian has taken up residence in Freddie’s room, having chosen that over sleeping on the living room floor.</p>
<p>“No, I’m alright,” John replies. He is; he already has about three quilts, two pillows and a glass of water. At this point he’s not sure what else Roger could even offer him, though he’s sure that whatever he asked for, Roger would find a way to deliver. “Thank you for this.” </p>
<p>“It’s no problem at all, Deaky,” Roger answers, and John’s chest does something odd at the nickname. “Thanks for coming out with me. I had a really nice time.” </p>
<p>His eyes are bright from drinking, his cheeks flushed a gentle pink. His shirt has a tiny hole in the front of the hem, showing a tiny hint of skin beneath. John’s mouth feels dry. </p>
<p>“I’ll see you in the morning,” Roger murmurs, smiling at him once more before leaving the room. </p>
<p>John lays down onto his pile of pillows and lets his eyes drift shut. The parlor isn’t as dark as he would have liked, the streetlamp outside casting golden light throughout the room, but he finds it doesn’t bother him the way it normally would. He likes the color of streetlamps, he’s found. They turn the world odd shades, all yellows and washed out greys. </p>
<p>He drifts off quicker and easier than he ever thought he could’ve.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John manages to muster his way through the splitting headache for the better part of the morning. As much as he hates to say it, he’s beginning to grow used to it. It fades into the background when he’s distracted with Queen or time with Roger, even if schoolwork doesn’t seem to offer him the same reprieve.</p>
<p>He’s just leaving his lecture hall, rubbing at his temples all the while, when he senses more than sees someone fall into step with him.</p>
<p>“Hi,” he says.</p>
<p>“Hi yourself,” Ronnie replies, because yeah, of course it’s Ronnie. “Doing well I take it? Staying busy?”</p>
<p>“Busy enough,” he replies, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>“Busy enough to ignore me for two days straight?” she says flatly, an edge of steel hidden in the indifference of her tone.</p>
<p>He purses his lips. “I texted you yesterday.”</p>
<p>“Not <em>about </em>anything.”</p>
<p>“I told you I got into a band. How is that not about anything?”</p>
<p>“John,” she says, touching his elbow until he stops walking, turning to face her. She’s wearing a shade of lipstick that he’s pretty sure her mother would have a fit over, not that her mother ever needs to know. “I know you’re avoiding the topic for a reason.”</p>
<p>“I’m not avoiding anything.”</p>
<p>“Fine, then,” she says, crossing her arms. “How was SoulFlash? Did you meet anyone?”</p>
<p>Ronnie’s SoulFlash membership: yet another thing her mother doesn’t need to know about.</p>
<p>He huffs, crossing his arms as well. “No. I didn’t meet anyone.”</p>
<p>“So is there a reason you’re wearing sunglasses on a completely cloudy day, then? Or is this just a new fashion thing you’re trying out?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t meet anybody,” he insists. “I didn’t. I saw them. That’s it.”</p>
<p>She frowns. “You saw them but you didn’t get in contact? What happened?”</p>
<p>“You’re going to laugh if I tell you,” he says, then looks away from her as the weight of the last few days catches up to him and makes his eyes prickle. “I don’t really want to talk about it, anyway, so can we please just drop it?”</p>
<p>“Oh John,” she says, her voice hushed. “They weren’t rude, were they? I’ll seriously kill them if they were.”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t that,” he replies, because really that would almost be better. If he’d met his soulmate and they decided they wanted nothing to do with him at least he would know where he stood; at least he would be sure. This is somehow more torturous: knowing they could be out there, lovely and kind and missing him just as much as he misses them, but forever just out of reach.</p>
<p>“Let’s get you home,” she murmurs, an arm around his waist, and they fall back into step as she steers him along the short walk to his flat.</p>
<p>Part of him wishes he couldn’t see in color at all. head feels like it’s throbbing with every new sight he sees, and while his sunglasses help filter out the worst of the vibrant greens and blues it makes the reds almost painfully sharp. Maybe someday he’ll be able to appreciate it, but in times like these it just makes everything worse.</p>
<p>The moment you see your soulmate is supposed to be the moment that everything comes together. The world becomes sharper, vibrant, more beautiful—everything becomes <em>more,</em> and you have someone at your side to share it with.</p>
<p>He doesn’t. It isn’t like that for him. He’s just alone.</p>
<p>Veronica sits him down at his own kitchen table and hands him a cup of tea. Her eyes are light brown, a similar shade to her hair. He thought they were blue before, or maybe green. He isn’t sure what color to call them now that he can see them for real.</p>
<p>“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asks gently.</p>
<p>He breathes in slowly and only speaks when he can do it without shaking. “You’re going to laugh.”</p>
<p>“You said that earlier. I’m not going to.”</p>
<p>“Please don’t.”</p>
<p>“Okay, I won’t.”</p>
<p>He fiddles with his mug. “I didn’t think it would happen. I didn’t think I would find them at all. I mean, what are the odds? Even with a site like that, what are the actual chances that you find them?”</p>
<p>She nods, her face sympathetic.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t nearly ready to push the—the whatever,” he gestures into the air, then tucks one foot up onto his seat just for some way to rid the excess energy. “I was barely watching, and then all at once everything just changed. I wasn’t ready for it. I don’t know how people are able to react so quickly when it happens. Everything looks so different.”</p>
<p>“So what did you do?”</p>
<p>“I reached for my laptop too fast and knocked my drink over,” he says, matter-of-fact, because he might as well rip off the plaster. “My computer immediately died. I’m still trying to fix it. I think the hard drive is okay, but the keyboard is all sticky now.”</p>
<p>“John,” she says.</p>
<p>“And even when I do get it fixed it will hardly matter,” he adds, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, because doesn’t that sum it up? He’ll have his schoolwork back and nothing else. He’ll be able to go about his life once more as if nothing happened in the first place. “I already missed my chance. Don’t know how I’ll ever find them now.”</p>
<p>“Have you called SoulFlash about this?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know how it will help,” he says. “They forbid people from sharing accounts anyway, so they probably won’t be happy.”</p>
<p>She presses her mouth into a thin line. “Do you want me to contact them?”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to trouble you.”</p>
<p>“That’s the most <em>you</em> answer I’ve ever heard you give.”</p>
<p>“I’m not holding out hope,” he says softly. “That’s all I mean. It’s already been a few days, anyway. If they wanted to find me, wouldn’t they have tried by now?”</p>
<p>“You’re assuming they have any more power over the situation than you do,” she supplies, sitting down beside him finally and resting her head sideways on the table. He settles, his cheek against his knee, watching her. “What’s it like?” she murmurs after a beat.</p>
<p>He doesn’t need to ask what she means. “It’s a lot.”</p>
<p>“Good?”</p>
<p>“Overwhelming. I don’t think I’ll be used to it for a while. It’s hard not to stop and study everything. They say everything is just one color, but that’s not even true. Leaves aren’t just green. The pavement isn’t just grey.”</p>
<p>“What color is my hair?”</p>
<p>“Brownish, but with gold.”</p>
<p>“My eyes?”</p>
<p>“Also brownish, but with gold. Like...I don’t know. Like tea, maybe.”</p>
<p>“Does my lipstick go with this dress?”</p>
<p>He huffs a laugh, surprised. “I don’t know any more about fashion than you do.”</p>
<p>“That’s fair,” she muses. She’s quiet for another beat, still studying him. “If I look for them will you get mad?”</p>
<p>No; of course he won’t. “If you can’t find them,” he says seriously, “please never tell me about it.”</p>
<p>She nods, a sad smile reaching her lips. “Deal,” she says solemnly, holding out her pinky for him to swear on.</p>
<p>He does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roger poses a welcome distraction in the days that follow. He’s always there when John’s thoughts seem like they’re getting to be too much, appearing at the doorway with a sunny smile and the odd takeaway bag. He somehow always seems to know when John is upset, and is becoming unerringly good at dragging him out of bad moods.</p>
<p>“How are you feeling about the show, then?” he asks him one afternoon, over smoothies he bought down the street. John’s is a soft shade of pink and tastes like strawberry banana; he isn’t sure what flavor Roger’s is, but it’s a strange shade of pale green. John isn’t sure if Roger can see color or not, but he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be sipping the drink with that much relish if he could.</p>
<p>“Alright,” he supplies, talking around his straw. He doesn’t miss the way Roger’s pretty blue eyes catch on his bottom lip before flitting away just as quickly. “The set is good. I feel a little more confident with it, anyway.”</p>
<p>“As you should,” Roger says firmly. “You sound incredible on it.”</p>
<p>There’s something soft in his voice as he says it that forces heat into John’s cheeks. “Thank you,” he says honestly. “You’re incredible as well—you’re all incredible, really. I have to work to sound good next to you lot.”</p>
<p>“Making you work, huh?” Roger replies with a sly grin, and really, how he manages to make a completely innocent sentence sound utterly <em>filthy </em>is beyond John. He’s sure his blush is clearly visible by now, but just as quickly as Roger leaned forward he sprawls backward against his chair, one arm hooked over the backrest. “You’re all ready, then?” he asks, his cheeks hollowing around his straw. “What are you wearing?”</p>
<p>John’s brain flatlines. “Hmm?”</p>
<p>“To the show, I mean.”</p>
<p>“Oh. I’m not sure quite yet. I haven’t really thought about it. What do you usually wear?”</p>
<p>“Well, <em>I </em>don’t usually wear all that much, to be honest,” Roger says. “It gets a bit too hot onstage, and I tend to move around a lot.”</p>
<p>Great. So he’s going to have to successfully play the bass <em>and</em> avoid looking at Roger Taylor, barely clothed and covered in sweat.</p>
<p>Awesome.</p>
<p>“Freddie and Brian have their own dress code,” Roger continues, apparently oblivious to the way John is trying to subtly shift in his seat. “It’s all a little glam, but they manage to pull it off. They have this whole black/white thing going on right now. It’s kind of sweet.”</p>
<p>That makes sense; he can see why soulmates would want to match and complement each other, especially when they do it so well musically already. “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing that. I don’t know how much I have in the way of glam, though.”</p>
<p>Roger hums. “Fred and I have a clothes stall, if you want to come check it out. We’ve pilfered most of our stage wear from our own stock over the years. I know we just got a new jacket in about a week ago and I don’t think they’ve sold it quite yet. You’ll like it—it’s your style.”</p>
<p>“I have a style?”</p>
<p>“You have <em>so </em>much style.”</p>
<p>“Now I know you’re flattering me.”</p>
<p>Roger laughs at that, eyes crinkled and head thrown back.  </p>
<p>They take the bus to the market, the two of them crammed side by side into two seats in the upper deck. Roger had ushered John into the seat by the window and spends the entire ride pressed a little too close to him, reaching across him to point out his favorite shops and places to eat. John can hardly say he minds; Roger’s body is warm and comforting pressed against his own, his blood fizzing at each point of contact to the point that he can barely focus on what Roger is saying.</p>
<p>It feels good to be around him. He’s completely magnetic and utterly captivating; one of those people that pulls everyone around them into their orbit, but even moreso. He’s the perfect distraction from the rest of the world. Even John’s never ending headache seems to dissipate in Roger’s presence. It’s like every problem in the world suddenly fades away.</p>
<p>It’s entrancing, watching Roger weave his way through the racks upon racks of clothes that fill his and Freddie’s tiny stall. There’s barely room to navigate, but Roger seems to pick his way through the space with grace. He’s at home here just like he is everywhere, and it’s wonderful to watch.</p>
<p>“This is the one I was talking about,” Roger says, brandishing a black satin jacket as if it’s a trophy. “It’s perfect!”</p>
<p>“It’s a little plain,” John says, though he isn’t sure he minds. He’d rather fade into the background, anyway.</p>
<p>“Nonsense,” Roger says, herding him over to a mirror. He wraps an arm around John’s body, holding the jacket out in front of his reflection. “It’s wonderful. Black is good on you, you know. It makes your eyes look so dark.”</p>
<p>“Black looks good on everyone,” John says wryly, but he takes the jacket anyway.</p>
<p>“Well, it especially looks good on you,” Roger says half to himself, picking through a tiny jewelry box on the counter in the corner. He pulls out a chain finally, holding it up. “Take this, too.”</p>
<p>“I don’t have much money, Roger,” John warns him, already eyeing the chain with apprehension.</p>
<p>“That doesn’t matter. It’s on the house. You can always trade it out for something else you like better, anyway. Consider it a rental, I guess.”</p>
<p>John frowns. “If you’re sure.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’m sure! I want everyone to know we have the prettiest bassist in town.”</p>
<p>John huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Roger,” he starts.</p>
<p>“Nuh-uh. Take it. My gift to you.”</p>
<p>His voice is low all at once, deliciously raspy, and John has to fight not to sway further into his space. The atmosphere, always light and playful between them, shifts just like that.</p>
<p>Roger’s smile is still lingering at the corner of his mouth, his lips pink and plush. His eyes—and John still isn’t over the color of his eyes, couldn’t imagine that a single color could ever be so beautiful—have gone suddenly dark and serious, his gaze heavy as it slides to John’s mouth.</p>
<p>“Roger,” he says again, his voice hushed, and Roger’s lips part.</p>
<p>This is uncharted territory—territory he shouldn’t even think about approaching, not when his soulmate could be so close on the horizon. He knows that. He should be waiting, if only to be fair to both them and to Roger.</p>
<p>He doesn’t feel much like waiting.</p>
<p>They sway closer together. He can hear Roger breathing from here.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want wait for anyone else. What can a soulmate be compared to this? What can it matter, that someone’s soul is a perfect match for his own? He won’t want them like this. He’s never wanted anyone like this—so badly that it makes him dizzy, and that all he wants is to press closer and duck forward and make a home and <em>stay</em>—and if there is something heading his way that is stronger than this, he doesn’t think he’ll survive it. He’d rather avoid it entirely; he’d rather wrap himself in Roger and never move again.</p>
<p>Roger leans forward ever so slightly and then back again, a half-aborted movement.</p>
<p>He can’t find it in him to care that he could be something else to a stranger. It barely matters to him; not when Roger is looking at him like this. His gaze is warm and heavy, open and honest in the way he’s taking John in. Nothing is hidden; longing, hunger, something melancholy and wistful—something that almost looks like fear.</p>
<p>The door to the stall bangs open. “Roger!” Freddie yells.</p>
<p>The moment breaks, just like that—like an elastic snapping or a glass shattering.</p>
<p>“What?” Roger crows back, all at once full of life and confidence and sound.</p>
<p>“I thought you were here.” Freddie makes his way through the racks until he finds them, sending John a warm smile. “Hi, Deaky. Getting ready for the show, are we? That will be perfect on you.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Freddie,” John replies. “It was Roger’s idea. He’s been very helpful.”</p>
<p>“Has he?” Freddie says with an eyebrow wiggle that honestly makes John want to sink through the floor. “Well, that’s good. Always nice to have a friend help you out in times of trouble.”</p>
<p>Yes, of course. A <em>friend.</em> John takes a careful step away from Roger, not that it helps. The space is so small that he practically has to cower into the clothes rack behind himself. Roger gives him a questioning little glance as he does.</p>
<p>“Thank you for this, Roger,” he says sincerely. “I’ve actually—I just remembered I have an assignment I need to complete. I’ll get out of your hair.”</p>
<p>“Nonsense, dear. It’s always a joy to have you around,” Freddie says breezily. “Will we see you later?”</p>
<p>“Later, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Excellent.”</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>Roger watches him go, tracking his movement until he disappears from the stall entirely. It’s only then that he turns around and glares at Freddie harshly.</p>
<p>“You didn’t have to send him away,” he snaps.</p>
<p>Freddie raises his eyebrows. “Before you did something the two of you would regret? I think I did.”</p>
<p>“That’s not your decision to make.”</p>
<p>“Roger, you found your soulmate less than a week ago,” Freddie says firmly, something close to anger in his eyes. “A <em>week </em>ago. Have you even processed that yet?”</p>
<p>“I don’t care about it. Not when I have him.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have him! Have you even told him?”</p>
<p>“Why would I?”</p>
<p>“So what if you meet your soulmate, then? What if you fall in love with them instantly, and John gets left in the dust? You’ll break his heart. He likes you. I can tell.”</p>
<p>“I like him,” Roger snaps. “I wouldn’t just ditch him like that. You know I wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“But what would happen? Have you thought it through?”</p>
<p>“Have <em>you?</em> My soulmate is gone, Freddie, okay? They’re gone. I had them and then I didn’t. I’m no better off than Brian is.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you dare say that,” Freddie says, his voice low.</p>
<p>He huffs, pausing to take a breath. “How can I not?” he says finally, voice quiet. “How is it not true? I could never find them. I could see them and not even know it. There’s no way to know whether I find them or not.”</p>
<p>“There are always ways to know.”</p>
<p>Roger shakes his head. He doesn’t want to say what he can’t stop thinking: that things like that don’t happen to him. Fate doesn’t happen to him. He’s never been a lucky person, and he doubts he’ll start now.</p>
<p>“Listen to me,” Freddie continues, his voice hushed. “Brian and I are working on it. We’re trying to find a way to get that information from the company. Even if we don’t manage to, we can still pay the fee. Hell, your soulmate could still find you before you find them. You know they could be working their hardest to find you even as we speak.”</p>
<p>“Or they could have given up by now,” Roger replies, sullen.</p>
<p>Freddie sighs heavily. He wraps an arm around Roger’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “I doubt anyone would give up on you.”</p>
<p>Roger lets out a long breath. He leans into Freddie’s shoulder, accepting his warmth and comfort, not sure what to make of all this.</p>
<p>He likes John, probably more than he should. It’s not that the other boy isn’t charming. It’s more the fact that Roger doesn’t fall so quickly, usually. Surface level attraction is one thing, and it’s certainly there with John; but yearning is there as well. It hurts not to be around him. It feels like time wasted.</p>
<p>Roger wants to dig himself into John’s space, burrow deep down and learn him from the inside out. He isn’t sure whether he should be scared of that feeling or not.</p>
<p>He goes to bed angry, but he can’t stay that way. </p>
<p>His sleep-addled mind is surrounded by seas of green and pink, soft and gentle. He feels warm and disoriented and surrounded by love, content to drift along in it. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them he sees John. </p>
<p><a href="https://grahamcockroach.tumblr.com/post/643146744393285632/bedsharing">He’s sleeping in Roger’s bed,</a> the room dark and still around them in the frozen hours of early morning that always seem to drag into eternity. He’s sleeping peacefully in the light from the lamps outside, his face pressed into Roger’s pillow, and then all at once he’s not anymore; all at once he’s blinking awake slowly and sending Roger a sleepy smile. </p>
<p>Roger wants to breathe him in and keep him there. He wants to inhale him and find some semblance of truth in him; wants to curl close to him as if that will give him answers and make this all make sense. It won’t; those truths won’t stand up in the cold light of day. When morning breaks John won’t want him; John won’t be his to desire.</p>
<p>This is truthful enough for now, though. Here, in the endless hours between one and three, his mind still half-asleep and not driven by logic in the least, this is all that matters: John rubbing the arch of his foot against Roger’s calf, John reaching for him in the darkness, John fitting solidly beneath his arm and against his ribs. All that matters is his warmth against Roger’s own, his weight creating a dip in the mattress, the familiar smell of his shampoo clouding Roger’s senses. </p>
<p>John sighs against his neck, a puff of wet heat. Roger holds him closer and shuts his eyes.</p>
<p>He snaps awake seconds later, the room still dark around him, the sheets on the other side of the bed undisturbed. Try though he might, he can’t fall back asleep. </p>
<p>He lays there until morning, watching the sun rise outside, not tired in the least, completely confident in two facts: the first, that whether his soulmate is John or not, Roger is falling rapidly in love with him and won’t stop anytime soon; and the second, that Roger has never felt this way in his life and doubts he will again. </p>
<p>Soulmates don’t matter to him anymore. Eternal love is as trivial as the color of the sky. He doesn’t care about it anymore. All he cares about is John, and it’s with that thought that he starts his day. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He makes it his mission to spend as much time with John as he can.</p>
<p>He’d be worried about annoying him, but John only seems happier for the company. He greets Roger in the mornings with flushed cheeks and eyelids still heavy with sleep, accepting Roger’s gifts of coffee or pastries with a warm smile that crinkles his eyes.</p>
<p>On the days when Roger finds himself particularly strapped for cash he shows up at John’s flat to wrestle with the battered coffee machine John brought with him all the way from Oadby, gifted by some distant aunt who had no use for it. Roger is pretty sure he’s going to need to buy him a new one more for his own sake than anything.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong with it?” he asks for what feels like the tenth morning in a row, slapping it impatiently.</p>
<p>“The tube for the water sometimes gets pinched by the wire,” John replies. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, his head resting on his folded arms. His spine is arched deliciously beneath the thin cotton of his sleep shirt and Roger is resolutely refusing to look. “You have to jostle it or else it won’t work.”</p>
<p>Roger huffs, jostling the little tube. It splutters a few times. “Aren’t you an engineer? Haven’t you fixed it?”</p>
<p>“I fix it every morning,” John deadpans. “I jostle the tube.”</p>
<p>Roger resists the urge to mutter angrily about what other tubes he could go and jostle. John just smiles at him sweetly, nestling further into his arms.</p>
<p>Still, some days he feels so utterly horrible he can barely get up in the morning. Sometimes the horrible pounding in his brain is so bad that he can’t even seek out the welcome distraction of John’s company. All he can do is lay around and groan into his pillow.</p>
<p>“I’m not giving you illegal drugs again,” Freddie says kindly from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of Brian’s armchair, doodling away on his tablet with a stylus. “I’d suggest you take a paracetamol. Brian, what pink is this?”</p>
<p>“I took two,” Roger groans. He’s sitting on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his eyes doing their best to exit his skull. “I don’t—fuck, this is <em>brutal.</em> Did you have this, Bri?”</p>
<p>“I’d assume so,” Brian muses. “I don’t really remember. And it’s like a cool pink. Pretty pink.”</p>
<p>Freddie glances back at him questioningly. It’s a game they play fairly regularly. Roger knows Freddie has seen color before, art student that he is; the school as color vision glasses on reserve, though students aren’t allowed to take them off campus. “What kind of pink?” he asks.</p>
<p>Roger glances at Freddie’s tablet. He’s playing some sort of coloring game, shading a peach a delicate midpoint between pink and purple.</p>
<p>“It’s like birthday cake pink,” Brian supplies. “Like…like Disney princess pink. First-flowers-you-ever-buy-for-someone pink.”</p>
<p>“It looks fine to me,” Roger says, testily.</p>
<p>“Of course it does. You’ve never seen a peach with color. They’re kind of orange.”</p>
<p>“Peaches are orange?” Freddie asks, frowning. “People always describe blushes as peachy, though.”</p>
<p>“Or arses,” Roger pipes up.</p>
<p>Brian sends him a long-suffering look. “If you’re feeling well you should take care of yourself,” he says to Roger. “You should go lie down. Rest your eyes or something.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to waste all day away in bed,” Roger says, affronted.</p>
<p>“I’m not telling you to sleep all day, I just mean you should get a little more rest.”</p>
<p>“I fully agree,” Freddie pipes up. “You need your rest. You’re sick.”</p>
<p>“I’m not sick,” Roger protests.</p>
<p>“What are you, if not sick?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know!” Roger says. “I wish I did! That way maybe I’d be able to do something about it!”</p>
<p>“How about some soup,” Freddie says.</p>
<p>“Ugg. I don’t want soup.”</p>
<p>“Black Pearl has a really lovely chicken soup. Do you remember?”</p>
<p>Brian groans. “Not Black Pearl again,” he whines.</p>
<p>“Well, we need to order him soup, and they have soup,” Freddie argues. “I don’t see the issue, Brian. You and I have to be out of here in a few minutes anyway.”</p>
<p>“So we’re not going to eat until after we get back, then? It’ll be late by then.”</p>
<p>“Well, we can have leftovers.”</p>
<p>“Leftover Chinese?”</p>
<p>“Yes!”</p>
<p>Someone knocks on the door. Brian huffs, standing up. “Let’s just get Japanese on the way home,” he says. “We could pick up sushi.”</p>
<p>“Alright, but we need to order some soup for Roger.”</p>
<p>Roger huffs. “I’m not an invalid,” he snaps. “I don’t want any soup, anyway. And why do we keep ordering from Black Pearl? They’re awful, and it’s not as if they’re the only Chinese restaurant in London. I don’t see why I have to suffer through their soup while you and Brian get Itsu or something.”</p>
<p>“See, Brimi?” Freddie calls. “Roger doesn’t want to eat alone. We should all order Black Pearl.”</p>
<p>Brian huffs, pulling the door open. “I <em>told </em>you, if you make me eat Chinese one more time—”</p>
<p>“You’ve only had it once in the first place, Brian!” Freddie yells.</p>
<p>Brian rolls his eyes, stepping back from the door. Roger brightens as John steps through, looking around the flat with wide eyes.</p>
<p>“Hi, Deaky,” Brian says. “Please come in. You might as well keep Roger company as he sits around moping.”</p>
<p>Roger huffs. “I am not moping!” he yells. “I’m not feeling well!”</p>
<p>“That makes two of us,” John replies, pacing a little closer. If he doesn’t feel well he’s certainly not showing it; he’s as beautiful as ever, not a hair out of place, and Roger wants to curl up in his blanket nest and never look at anyone ever again.</p>
<p>“You look lovely as always,” Roger grumbles as he comes closer. “Bastard.”</p>
<p>That brings a little more color into John’s face. His eyes crinkle slightly. “I missed you today, Rog,” he says softly, taking a seat beside Roger on the sofa.</p>
<p>“Yeah, likewise,” Roger sighs. He can’t even make eye contact with him. It’s embarrassing.</p>
<p>Freddie huffs, breaking an otherwise lovely moment. “John, maybe you can get Roger to see some common sense,” he says. “I was going to order him some soup—”</p>
<p>“I don’t want any soup, Fred,” Roger insists, wrapping his blankets around himself further. He can already feel bile in the back of his throat at the thought of what Black Pearl passes off as soup: tubs of nothing but chicken grease and the odd noodle, a sad carrot or two stuck in the gelatinous mess as if the chef saw fit to punish them for sins unknown.</p>
<p>“You need soup,” Freddie replies gently as if explaining the idea to a child. “It’s very important that you eat if you’re sick. I told you, Black Pearl has—”</p>
<p>“Can we please not?” Brian whines by the door. He sends John a pleading look. “He insists we keep ordering from this place. It’s not <em>good</em>, Fred. I don’t know why you think it’s good.”</p>
<p>“It’s perfectly fine,” Freddie says patiently.</p>
<p>“I ordered vegetarian stir fry and found a feather in it!”</p>
<p>“Are you sure that isn’t what that place passes off as seasoning?” Roger mutters. His headache is flaring at the volume of their voices, and he wants nothing more than to burrow into John’s chest and never move again.</p>
<p>John glances at him, eyes worried and sympathetic. “You two, out,” he tells Freddie and Brian without looking at them. “I can tell you were on your way out the door, anyway. I’ll make sure Roger gets something to eat.”</p>
<p>Freddie sighs heavily. “Deaky, you don’t need to do that.”</p>
<p>“Yes he does,” Brian cuts in quickly. “We’re going to be late, and as much as I love babysitting Roger when he’s being obstinate—”</p>
<p>“Hey!” Roger protests weakly.</p>
<p>“—we do have places to be.”</p>
<p>“Fine,” Freddie says, allowing Brian to drag him through the still-open door. “Roger, don’t look at your phone too much! You’ll make your headache worse.”</p>
<p>“You’re not my real mom,” Roger grumbles back.</p>
<p>The door closes before Freddie can respond.</p>
<p>John lets out a long breath at Roger’s side, sinking backward into the sofa. It jostles Roger slightly, and he grumbles as he overbalances and falls toward the divot made by the weight of John’s body.</p>
<p>“You’re sick?” John asks him quietly.</p>
<p>Roger nods, feeling a little pathetic. “I’ve been feeling a little out of it for the last few weeks. That’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.” He can feel the weight of John’s gaze on him, and when he turns it’s to the sight of John’s face lit up by the telly, the silver light bringing out the blue in his eyes. Roger is working night and day to catalogue all the colors in the world, and he thinks he can name a good amount of them; he’s still not sure about John’s eyes, though. They seem completely changeable, forever in flux. They remind him of mist, maybe; slick stones by the sea and walks along the cliffs. Quiet places made for safety, meant for deep thought and melancholy and wanting.</p>
<p>He expected John to be watching him, but it still warms something in his chest when their eyes meet. “Hey, you,” he says softly.</p>
<p>John laughs through his nose. “Hey yourself,” he replies. He nudges Roger’s knee with his own. “I missed you today.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I’ve gotten used to you bothering me all the time.”</p>
<p>Roger snorts. He extracts one hand from his blanket to poke John in the ribs. “Please. You love me.”</p>
<p>John just hums, letting his head tilt backward until it rests on the back of the sofa. His eyelids look heavy, his breathing evening out, his neck stretching in a long, graceful line as he cranes it to look at the telly. He’s vulnerable like this, and it sends something once-untethered settling in the back of Roger’s head. John feels safe around him; comfortable, even. He wasn’t expecting to feel so soothed by confirmation of something he’d already known.</p>
<p>“I missed you too, for what it’s worth,” he says.</p>
<p>John lets out a questioning little noise, raising his eyebrows and rolling his head until he can look up at Roger.</p>
<p>Roger, for his part, just lets himself fall into the divot left by John’s body. He rolls until he’s sitting sideways, his feet practically under John’s thigh. It’s better to be close like this; it feels good to be near his warmth, and Roger is practically high on it.</p>
<p>“I think I’ve gotten too used to having you around,” Roger says.</p>
<p>One corner of John’s mouth curls upward. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he teases quietly.</p>
<p>“A good thing, obviously.”</p>
<p>“Not obvious from the way you said it.”</p>
<p>“Of course it’s a good thing,” Roger insists. He wiggles his toes under John’s thigh, and John’s smile widens. “Of course it is. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you around.”</p>
<p>He watches as John’s throat bobs. He’s watching Roger openly, eyes darting across his face as if he’s waiting for Roger to do something. Roger finds that he likes it, all at once. He loves having his full attention like this. He isn’t sure how he’ll ever get enough.</p>
<p>He wants all of him. He wants to know what he’s thinking, in quiet moments like this. He wants the truth of him; every absent thought and perceived flaw. He wants to learn him from the inside out and understand him in every intimate way.</p>
<p>“John,” Roger murmurs, hushed, and thrills at the way John shivers.</p>
<p>John’s breath hitches nearly imperceptibly, the rise and fall of his chest stuttering. His fingers twitch, half-aborted, like he was going to reach out but thought better of it.</p>
<p>He’s so close, like this. It’s like the clothes stall all over again, only even more intense. It’s more private, this way; Roger feels like he has him all to himself.</p>
<p>Not everything is the same. The plain look Roger had seen written across his face that day—hot need, open desire, something that looked a little like fear—is gone this time. John’s expression is open and warm, something a little like wonder in his eyes.</p>
<p>Roger lets himself look. He lets his eyes wander down to his mouth—soft pink and sweet-looking—and linger there. John’s breath hitches again, and this time he’s close enough to hear it. He sways just a little closer into Roger’s space.</p>
<p>He needs him. All at once, he needs him, and if that weren’t so all-encompassing then it would be the way he <em>wants</em> him. It’s not just attraction. Roger has felt attraction before, countless times—of course he has. This is different.</p>
<p>In a rush of bravery he reaches up, letting his fingers brush against John’s cheek before cupping it in his palm. John’s eyelashes flutter.</p>
<p>“John,” he whispers again. John’s gaze flicks up to his own, his eyes heavy lidded.</p>
<p>Roger leans forward and kisses him.</p>
<p>For one long moment it’s perfect. He can feel John’s eyelashes tickling his cheek as he lets his eyes fall shut. John lets out a long sigh through his nose, content and warm, and he presses further into Roger’s touch when Roger traces his thumb against the soft skin of his cheek.</p>
<p>John kisses him back, and Roger’s world is absolutely perfect. Everything shifts into place, slotting together, and John is the most right of all. He belongs in Roger’s arms, just like this. They’re meant to be sharing the same air. They’re meant to be tucked against each other. It’s as addictive as it is soothing. He needs more. He doesn’t need anything ever again. He could die happy, just like this. He wants to be closer.</p>
<p>John kisses him, and Roger tugs him closer still. He needs more. He thinks he might die otherwise.</p>
<p>And then, just like that, John pulls away.</p>
<p>“I,” John says, suddenly at the very other end of the couch. “I’m sorry. That was a mistake.”</p>
<p>His cheeks are flushed the same color as his mouth. He won’t look Roger in the eye, and all at once Roger feels sick.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Roger rushes to say. “I’m—I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry.”</p>
<p>“No, don’t—you’re lovely,” John says awkwardly, his hands clasped in his lap. “It’s not you, it’s really not. I could be so lucky as to—”</p>
<p>Roger groans, letting his head rest in his hands. “Please don’t,” he says weakly, letting his face fall into his hands. “If you say you’re flattered I’m leaving.”</p>
<p>John huffs out a helpless laugh. “I am, though. You’re wonderful, Roger.”</p>
<p>“You just don’t feel the same way.”</p>
<p>John looks at him sideways, silent for a long moment. “I found my soulmate,” he says finally, quiet and matter of fact.</p>
<p>Roger is frozen for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lets out a long breath. “Congratulations,” he says, and he can almost fool himself into thinking he means it.</p>
<p>“It was a little while ago,” John continues, quietly. “I didn’t—I have to give them a chance, even if it’s a small one. I have to. I couldn’t—”</p>
<p>“No, it’s okay,” Roger says quickly, making to stand. His lips still feel tingly, and he resists the urge to lick them. “It’s alright. I’m—you’re so lucky. They’re going to make you so happy.”</p>
<p>“Roger,” John says, looking up at him pleadingly.</p>
<p>Roger just laughs. It comes out more broken than he wanted it to, brittle and angry. “They better,” he adds, backing toward the doorway. “If they break your heart you send them to me, alright? You deserve everything—everything in the world that anyone could possibly offer you.”</p>
<p>John just watches him, something fragile written across his face.</p>
<p>“I’m not feeling well,” Roger tells him, finally reaching the doorway and wrapping a hand around it to steady himself. It’s the truth; he suddenly feels like shit. His head is throbbing again, his eyes aching every time he moves them, and he can feel himself breaking out into a cold sweat even as he makes his way closer to his bedroom. “I’m going to lie down, okay? I think I need to sleep this off.”</p>
<p>“You haven’t even eaten, Roger.”</p>
<p>“Later,” he says. “I’ll eat when Fred and Bri come back.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t look back. He rounds the corner, heads straight into his room and closes the door behind himself, not even bothering to turn the lights on. He collapses straight into bed, fighting not to gag from the lump in his throat and the pain in his head.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” he whispers, tears prickling at his eyes.</p>
<p>Fuck soulmates. Maybe it’s what he deserves; it’s certainly what John deserves. Roger will spend the rest of his life convincing himself of that; he’s sure of it. There’s no love in the universe that could compare to the feeling of this; he’ll never again want someone this badly.</p>
<p>There’s no soulmate out there for him. Color vision be damned, he’s already found what he’s looking for. John has a soulmate, and Roger is happy for him. Deep, deep down, he’s happy, but deeper still he knows it’s just what he’s forcing himself to feel.</p>
<p>John deserves every happiness in the world, and Roger already knows he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to convince himself that John’s soulmate is good enough for him; that they’ll devote themselves to John even half as much as Roger could.</p>
<p>Screw it. He’ll find a way to be happy for him tomorrow. Tonight, his thoughts clouded by pain, he can only find it in himself to hate John’s soulmate as much as he resents his own.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John leaves Roger’s flat, taking Roger’s less-than-subtle cue that he wants to be alone, only to immediately regret it. He feels horrible leaving Roger on his own, particularly when he’s feeling under the weather, but his guilt is outweighed by his own discomfort. He doesn’t realize how awful he feels—physically awful on top of everything else—until he’s already left the flat and the door has locked behind him.</p>
<p>He has to pause on the stoop of the building for a long moment. His head is pounding, his eyes aching every time he moves them, and looking at the muted colors of dusk only makes it worse. He sits on the concrete steps, his head against his knees, and rests for a moment.</p>
<p>Whatever Roger has caught must be going around.</p>
<p>He could probably benefit from a hot meal himself. Freddie was right about the soup. It sounded disgusting at the time, but surely it can’t be that bad. Not to mention, Roger could probably use a little soup himself.</p>
<p>He can’t go back up to Roger right now, though. Not after that.</p>
<p>Why did he push him away in the first place? Why did he even let him get close? Why did he entertain the idea for even a moment that he and Roger could make this work, right now and in the present? If it had been a few weeks earlier or a few weeks later—if he had never matched with his soulmate at all—</p>
<p>But he can’t regret that. He refuses to. He can’t regret the fact that his soulmate could be just out of reach but still right over the horizon.</p>
<p>He can’t regret this, either. He can’t regret turning him down when it might be the only thing that allows him to have Roger in his life for the long term. Even now, when all he wants is to run back upstairs and take it all back, he can’t regret it. If he let himself fall in love with Roger now, potentially days before he finds his soulmate, he doesn’t think he could forgive himself. It wouldn’t be fair, least of all to Roger.</p>
<p>No, it’s better this way. Better that they stay friends.</p>
<p>He tries to remind himself of that as he stumbles home and collapses into bed. He tries to remember it even while his head pounds, his stomach churning with it, and finally manages to drift off.</p>
<p>He tries to remember when he doesn’t hear from Roger the next day, or the day after that.</p>
<p>“I think he might have blocked my number,” John says to the ceiling on day three. He’s laying on Ronnie’s sofa, searching for meaning in the cheap popcorn texture of it as she putters around in the tiny kitchen.</p>
<p>“I’m making you a homeopathic tea,” she calls.</p>
<p>“To put me out of my misery?”</p>
<p>“That’s dramatic even for you,” she replies.</p>
<p>He rolls over onto his stomach to peer at her over the armrest. She stares right back, raising her eyebrows expectantly as she struggles to get the wrapping off of a brand new box of tea.</p>
<p>“I’m not dramatic,” he tells her. “Homeopathy scares me.”</p>
<p>“It scares everyone. You’re not special. It says it’s good for migraines.”</p>
<p>He squints at her. “You bought me migraine tea?”</p>
<p>“No, I got it from my mum,” she says, wandering over to sit down on the coffee table in front of him. She’s still wrestling with the plastic, sliding her nail across it to find the seam. “She sent it to me. She’s all into traditional remedies right now. Bee pollen or something, I don’t really know.”</p>
<p>“Do you want help?” he asks, still watching her.</p>
<p>“No, I got it. Your nails are shorter than mine.” She manages to tear into it finally, pulling the plastic off with an air of vindication. “Anyway, you usually <em>are</em> dramatic, but not to this level. What did he do?”</p>
<p>“What did who do?” he tries.</p>
<p>“Roger.”</p>
<p>He huffs, rolling back over to stare at the ceiling. He fiddles with his fingers, picking at the calluses on the fingertips of his left hand, hoping to wait her out. It’s no use. Ronnie’s just as stubborn as he is; she always has been.</p>
<p>She lets out a quiet breath. “John,” she says.</p>
<p>“He kissed me.”</p>
<p>She’s silent for a beat. “That’s great!” she says finally. “I’m glad! It was about time!”</p>
<p>He groans, rolling over again.</p>
<p>“Not great?”</p>
<p>“I told him I didn’t want to start anything since I matched with my soulmate and I want to see where it goes,” he says into his arms.</p>
<p>“…Oh.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to ruin our friendship. And what if I end up falling in love with my soulmate? It would be horrible. I couldn’t hurt him like that.”</p>
<p>“You and your soulmate could have a platonic bond,” she tells him. “it’s honestly quite likely, given…”</p>
<p>“Given what?”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know. It just seems like if you’re really as gone for this boy as you say, then it’s unlikely that you’ll find someone you like more than you like him anyway. Besides, it’s clearly mutual.”</p>
<p>“Don’t say that.”</p>
<p>“Why not? He’s the one running around kissing you. Does that sound <em>not</em> mutual to you? Quite honestly, he sounds head over heels. He’d probably be happier to date you and lose you than—”</p>
<p>
  <em>“Ronnie!” </em>
</p>
<p>He practically hears her roll her eyes. “Just trying to get your head out of your ass, Deacon.”</p>
<p>He sits up, looking her in the eyes. “Do you think I made a mistake?”</p>
<p>She fiddles with the tea box, pursing her lips. “I—you know, that’s not really my place to say.”</p>
<p>“You do.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I don’t even know him. How can I really say?”</p>
<p>He sighs, leaning his head against his arms so he can watch her.</p>
<p>“I just want you to be happy,” she continues. “If being friends with him and nothing more makes you happy then that’s fine. If you want something more with him, that’s okay too. I don’t really care what you do as long as you’re happy, and he seemed like he was making you happy. That’s all.”</p>
<p>He sighs, turning that over. Roger does make him happy; of course he does. The last few days have only thrown that into even more stark relief; now, without Roger in the periphery of his life at every turn, the world just feels dull and colorless.</p>
<p>He’s happy with Roger. That’s why he’d feel even worse if he hurt him.</p>
<p>“You might not have to wait long, anyway,” Ronnie says. She stands up, flicking the kettle off and pulling out a set of mugs.</p>
<p>“Why’s that?” he calls after her.</p>
<p>“I’m making progress with SoulFlash. It’s not been easy, but they’re beginning to help. It figures that their support line is constantly tied up. I was on hold for half an hour yesterday.”</p>
<p>“But you’re making progress?”</p>
<p>“Of sorts. They’re working on sending me a list of everyone you saw that night.”</p>
<p>“That has to be a thousand people or more,” he says.</p>
<p>“And they’re helping me narrow it down,” she finishes. “I’ll tell you once I have it. It should be any day now.”</p>
<p>He hums at that, pulling himself upright on the sofa finally so he can look at her. “Did they say what the odds are that I actually find them?”</p>
<p>“No,” she allows, wandering over with tea in tow, “but I’m guessing they’re a lot higher than your odds of finding your soulmate in the first place. Either way, it’s good to have a little faith.”</p>
<p>“Doing my best,” he mutters.</p>
<p>She shrugs gently, handing off her mug. “You’re doing just fine. Now, please pretend this doesn’t smell as bad as I know it does.”</p>
<p>He wrinkles his nose as he takes a whiff. It smells vaguely like a combination of dead grass, vanilla and dirt. “It’s not so bad,” he lies.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she says blandly. “Do you want to go to Greggs and get something that’s actually edible?”</p>
<p>He sighs, setting his mug down on the coffee table. “I’ll buy,” he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They make it through all of one band practice before the awkwardness gets to him.</p>
<p>Roger won’t even look at him, and that’s somehow the part that’s getting to him the most. Roger won’t really look at anyone at all, for that matter. It’s not that he’s not focused; far from it. All he seems to be thinking about at all is beating his way through his drum skins as fast as humanly possible. Without his attention John is left scrambling to follow him, struggling to keep up without the silent communication that usually flows so easily between the two of them. For the first time since he joined the band he feels like the two of them aren’t meshing at all, and it shows.</p>
<p>Freddie looks at the two of them, his mouth twisted in one corner, and sighs. “Roger, dear, is something the matter?”</p>
<p>“Everything’s fine,” Roger grunts, tapping out a quick roll that sounds about as jittery as John feels.</p>
<p>Freddie’s eyes flick to John, and all at once John is lifting his bass off his shoulder and setting it down in its stand. “I need a break.”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Freddie sighs. “We might as well.”</p>
<p>Ducking into the bathroom away from prying eyes would have been a relief if not for the way his head begins pounding as soon as he gets there. He grunts, gripping the edge of the sink before turning on the tap and splashing a few drops of cold water on the back of his neck. It barely helps, but at least it distracts him from the pain a little.</p>
<p>He barely has a minute to breathe before the door is swinging open behind it. Blue eyes meet his own in the mirror.</p>
<p>“Can we talk?” Roger asks him.</p>
<p>John watches him, his mouth dry. The tap is still running, the rushing of the water only punctuating the awkwardness. They don’t do awkward silences. They never have.</p>
<p>John nods silently, and Roger’s shoulders sag.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Roger tells him. “I thought—look, I really like you, okay? And I thought you might like me too.”</p>
<p>“I do like you, Rog,” John sighs. That’s not the issue here.”</p>
<p>“I know that. I get it. I just never would have done it if I knew it was going to mess everything up like this. I feel horrible about it,” he tells him. “I don’t want to lose you as a friend. We went from spending all our time together to not even talking, and I hate it.”</p>
<p>“I thought you were avoiding me.”</p>
<p>“I thought you wanted space. If you do that’s fine. Just tell me so that I don’t keep messing this up.”</p>
<p>“You aren’t,” John says quickly. “You just—I was confused, you know? I thought you didn’t want to see me. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”</p>
<p>“It’s not that.”</p>
<p>“I do like you,” he says again, a bit desperately. “You’re not the one messing this up.”</p>
<p>“Don’t say that,” Roger replies, his voice soft, but he’s avoiding his eyes again.</p>
<p>John sighs. He reaches for the tap finally, turning the sink off. The sudden silence is jarring. “If you want to go back to how things were,” he says quietly, “then I’m fine with that. That’s all I want. I missed you.”</p>
<p>Roger nods, his eyes still down. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to apologize.”</p>
<p>“Well, I am.”</p>
<p>There isn’t much to say to that. He watches Roger’s reflection as he leaves, the door swinging shut with a resounding thud behind him. He watches it for a moment longer before his gaze flicks to his own face in the mirror. He studies his own eyes for a beat, then shakes his head sharply and follows Roger out of the bathroom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Things do not return to normal.</p>
<p>They don’t go back to the way things were, and it’s eating Roger from the inside. He doesn’t hear from John over the next few days, and when he finally swallows his pride and turns up at John’s door his hesitant knock goes unanswered.</p>
<p>He can no longer tell if he’s the one avoiding, or the one being avoided.</p>
<p>“It can hardly be helped, you know,” Freddie says to him blandly from where he’s washing a brick of ramen under the faucet. It’s a rainy afternoon; it’s been raining all day, and Roger can only hope it will let up before his afternoon classes begin. “I mean, he’s right in a way.”</p>
<p>Roger frowns, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. His head has been aching worse and worse these last few days. Soulmate or not, he’s considering calling a doctor. There has to be some way to find relief from this.</p>
<p>“What do you mean?” he asks. It comes out a little harsher than intended, but he can hardly be blamed for it. He doesn’t have enough patience for this conversation right now.</p>
<p>Freddie’s mouth twists. “I just mean that maybe this is a blessing in disguise,” he continues, shaking off his ramen and inspecting it for a moment before plunking it into a pot.</p>
<p>Roger grimaces. “What exactly are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Rinsing off the oil makes it healthier.”</p>
<p>“No, it definitely doesn’t,” Roger replies, staring at him.</p>
<p>Freddie rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Not the point. Look, I know you’re broken up about this whole situation with John—”</p>
<p>“Broken up about it?”</p>
<p>“—But maybe this is exactly what you needed! He basically just gave you a chance to go and find your soulmate! Roger, that’s a good thing.”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t feel like a good thing.”</p>
<p>“You might thank him for it in a year or two,” Freddie says pointedly, stirring his pot. “Have you thought about that?”</p>
<p>Roger’s temper boils over finally. His hands fall from his face as he squints at Freddie. “What are you on about?” he snaps. “I wouldn’t have expected this argument to come from you.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Freddie says.</p>
<p>“Bullshit. You’ve never been one to care about soulmates.”</p>
<p>“It’s not that I don’t care about them. You know that.”</p>
<p>“It sure doesn’t sound like it!”</p>
<p>Freddie huffs, turning. “Roger, I know you’re upset, but—”</p>
<p>“I love him!” he yells. “I’m in love with him!”</p>
<p>Freddie raises his eyebrows. “Alright,” he starts.</p>
<p>“I know he feels the same way, too,” Roger continues loudly. “I know it! I felt it. He wants this just as much as I do, and if it weren’t for this soulmate <em>bullshit</em> we’d already have this!”</p>
<p>“He rejected you because of your soulmate?” Freddie asks, frowning.</p>
<p>Roger groans into his hands. “No,” he says. “It’s not—it’s complicated.”</p>
<p>“What happened?”</p>
<p>He already knows what Freddie will say if he tells him what really happened. Better not to fuel that particular fire. “It doesn’t matter,” he says instead. “That’s not the point here. All I want to know is why you’re suddenly taking the other side in this when Brian—”</p>
<p>“Don’t, Rog.”</p>
<p>“—Would clearly be elated if you asked him out!”</p>
<p>“I said don’t,” Freddie says a little more firmly, his eyes flashing.</p>
<p>“What? You don’t want to talk about that? You’ll talk about how I’m throwing away my chance at a soulmate but you don’t want to discuss your own double standards?”</p>
<p>“Roger,” Freddie snaps, whipping around, “this isn’t about me or Brian. That’s none of your business.”</p>
<p>“You made it my business! You made it my problem!”</p>
<p>“I did not,” Freddie hisses, “and for your information he and I have already discussed that, so would you drop it?! I’m trying to keep you from making a mistake that could ruin your entire life—your relationship with your soulmate, your friendship with John, the stability of this band—because darling, sometimes you don’t get everything that you want. You need to look before you leap, for once in your life!”</p>
<p>Roger exhales hard, standing up quickly. That just makes his head pound even harder, his vision swimming for a moment before he rights himself on the counter. It only makes him angrier.</p>
<p>Fuck soulmates. Fuck his headache, and fuck this.</p>
<p>“He’s not a mistake,” he says harshly.</p>
<p>Freddie squints at him. “What?” he says, skeptical.</p>
<p>“Loving him isn’t a mistake. Not to me.” He pushes off the counter, relieved when he can stand without swaying. He jams his feet into his shoes and makes his way to the door. “Fuck you for thinking so.”</p>
<p>“Roger, you can’t go out in this.”</p>
<p>Roger slams the door behind him so hard the windows rattle.</p>
<p>The rain has worsened. The pavement is slick and soaked with puddles, and the water seeps into his All Stars immediately. His hoodie does nothing to save him from the rain, though at the very least the coolness of the water soothes his aching head.</p>
<p>He can’t stay out like this for long. He’ll be risking a cold if he does. John is home, but Roger knows he’s expecting Freddie for tea within the hour; as much as Roger would like to see him, he doesn’t think he can look Freddie in the eye right now. He certainly won’t be able to parse his way through the awkwardness between all three of them.</p>
<p>Brian, though. He can talk to Brian. Brian might be the only person who actually understands enough to help.</p>
<p>Brian greets him with a small smile and a gentle <em>come in, Rog, there’s tea on, </em>and<em> can I get you a towel?</em> Brian hands him a perfectly brewed cup and toast with Roger’s favorite jam, raspberry that’s a deep purple-red color Roger never noticed until now. It’s pretty in the sunlight, and Roger spends a long moment just looking at it.</p>
<p>“What’s on your mind, then?” Brian asks softly.</p>
<p>Roger wants to tell him that he’s been unsure about how to go forward, recently. He wants to tell him that he isn’t sure how he should move forward—with his friendship with John, with the band, anything—and that he’s never been so uncertain in his life. He wants to tell him that the concept of soulmates doesn’t mean anything to him anymore, now that he had something so beautiful and lost it just as fast.</p>
<p>That’s not what he says.</p>
<p>“I’m in love with John,” he blurts, and then immediately wants to die.</p>
<p>Brian, to his credit, just blinks. “Okay,” he says.</p>
<p>“That’s it? Okay?”</p>
<p>“I kind of thought you might be. I mean, I knew you liked him. You love him, Roger? Really?”</p>
<p>Roger bites his toast aggressively. “I didn’t even plan it,” he says through his food. “Love shouldn’t be like that!”</p>
<p>“Unplanned?” Brian asks slowly.</p>
<p>“Yes!”</p>
<p>“Roger, I’m not really sure what the issue is here. He really seems like he likes you, too.”</p>
<p>Roger swallows, pushing back his frustration as he does. “Freddie is upset with me,” he says, staring at the table. “Because I have a soulmate that I’m not even making an effort to find. Honestly it’s a little rich coming from him of all people, but I—I don’t know how I’m supposed to move forward and ignore any thought of love when I might never find my soulmate in the first place.”</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t give up so soon,” Brian says gently.</p>
<p>“That’s what Freddie said. I don’t want to give up on something good either, though. John is worth more to me than that. I can’t imagine being able to just turn away from him if someone else comes along. This isn’t like that; he’s not like that.”</p>
<p>Brian fiddles with his mug. “Well, I’ll be the first to tell you that soulmates aren’t all there is to life,” he says quietly. “Freddie should understand that as well, quite frankly. But,” he adds, tapping on the side of his mug, “I also want to point out that he could have a point. You have a really incredible chance, here. You found your <em>soulmate, </em>Roger. They’re out there somewhere. You’re so close to being able to reach them.”</p>
<p>“Not close enough,” Roger grumbles. “Even if I find them, they won’t be able to compete with John.”</p>
<p>“You love him that much?”</p>
<p>Roger sighs. “Yeah,” he murmurs.</p>
<p>“Well, alright,” Brian says with a tiny laugh, kicking his ankle gently. “There’s no reason to sound so upset about it.”</p>
<p>Despite himself, Roger feels a smile tugging at his lips. “Just—what’s the point, anyway? I’ve found my soulmate, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need anyone else.”</p>
<p>“Your soulmate could be a platonic bond. You could just be waiting for a best friend.”</p>
<p>“I’ve already got three best friends.”</p>
<p>Brian shakes his head, smiling wryly. “Fate will probably pull you and your soulmate together either way, you know,” he says. “You’ll never stop searching once you’ve made contact. You’ll never stop reaching out, even subconsciously.”</p>
<p>“You sound quite sure about that.”</p>
<p>“How can I not be?”</p>
<p>Roger winces. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be,” Brian says, shaking his head shortly. “It’s alright.”</p>
<p>He takes a slow sip of tea. Roger watches him do it; watches and waits for any sign of lingering sadness, but it isn’t there. He sees it sometimes, but not today.</p>
<p>“You never talk about it,” Roger says, breaking the silence.</p>
<p>Brian looks at him, surprised, and studies him for a beat. “There’s not much to say,” he says finally.</p>
<p>“There’s everything to say.”</p>
<p>“It hardly matters much anymore.”</p>
<p>“Brian,” Roger starts.</p>
<p>But Brian just shakes his head, setting down his mug. “It’s alright, Rog,” he says quietly. “There’s no point in opening old wounds. It’s done. I was so young anyway, I hardly remember.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t that just make it worse?” Roger asks, because he couldn’t imagine.</p>
<p>Brian tilts his head. “Maybe it makes it easier,” he says. “We didn’t lose as much. I never knew who…I suppose who she was, in a way, and I think maybe it’s better that way. If I knew her like that—if I knew her the way you know John, or the way I know Freddie...” he trails off, studying his mug. “It would have been a lot harder if it happened that way, but it didn’t. I don’t know what I would do if I lost one of you. Maybe that’s what Freddie is missing; maybe that’s what he doesn’t quite understand that you and I do. The concept of a soulmate sometimes just doesn’t measure up to what you have concretely—to the people you already love.”</p>
<p>Roger nods, swallowing hard, because that’s it. That’s finally it. Soulmate or not, he loves John. He loves him in ways he never thought possible. Whether his soulmate is a distant promise, a complete mystery or someone already in his life doesn’t really matter; John matters, and he never won’t, in just the same way that if Roger’s platonic soulmate showed up on his doorstep tomorrow it still wouldn’t change the fact that Freddie and Brian and John will be his best friends until the end of time.</p>
<p>Fuck destiny, and fuck soulmates. He’ll never find anything more real than the love he already has.</p>
<p>Brian laughs quietly, scrubbing a hand across his face and standing up. “We’re ridiculous,” he says. “Look at us. Is this what you expected you’d get out of auditioning for a silly rock band all those years ago?”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t trade it for the world,” Roger says earnestly.</p>
<p>“You’re horrible. Let’s open a bottle of wine.”</p>
<p>“You always say the sweetest things, Bri,” Roger croons.</p>
<p>Brian laughs again, rounding the corner to the kitchen. Distantly Roger can hear him rifling through a cabinet. Bottles clink together softly as Brian mutters to himself.</p>
<p>Roger finishes his last bite of toast, sipping his tea thoughtfully and settling back against the sofa. He’s just about to turn on the telly, more for something to do than out of any real interest, when someone knocks on the door.</p>
<p>“Are you expecting anyone?” Roger calls.</p>
<p>“No,” Brian calls back. “Fuck. I don’t think I have wine, but I have champagne. Not sure where it came from…”</p>
<p>“Someone’s at the door, Bri.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s probably just Freddie coming to steal all my food again. Will you let him in?”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Roger calls, standing from his place in front of the sofa and making his way to the door. He can hear chatter through the heavy wood, but Brian doesn’t have a peep hole so he can’t be sure who is out there. Frowning to himself, he unlocks it and swings the door open.</p>
<p>Freddie, John and a woman Roger doesn’t recognize are standing on the stoop.</p>
<p>“Roger,” John breathes.</p>
<p>Roger raises his eyebrows. “John. What are you doing here?” he starts to say, but the word is cut off immediately by John’s lips on his.</p>
<p>He takes a step backward, righting them even as John presses into Roger’s space, his hands on Roger’s cheeks. He kisses him hard, his lips soft and warm against Roger’s own, and it takes Roger an embarrassing four seconds before he can get his wits about him and relax under his touch. And then all at once it’s <em>perfect.</em></p>
<p>John lets out a quiet little sound as Roger relaxes against him. His hips fit perfectly in Roger’s hands, and he lets out a shuddery little sigh when Roger traces over his hipbones with his thumbs. There’s a desperation to him, as if he was worried Roger wouldn’t take this the right way; as if he’s terrified of Roger pushing him off.</p>
<p>Ridiculous. Roger would never.</p>
<p>And then John’s hands are in his hair, his blunt nails tracing against Roger’s scalp in the best way Roger has ever felt in his life, and then he’s dragging John even closer and overbalancing a little, and then they’re careening into a wall and he’s wedged between the plaster and John’s warmth and there’s a thigh between his own and a hand pulling his knee up over John’s hip and everything is <em>fucking great—</em></p>
<p>“Uhh,” Brian says from behind them somewhere.</p>
<p>John pulls away finally, his lips leaving Roger’s own with a noise that would honestly be funny if he didn’t feel like his brain had sprouted wings and left for far off lands. Judging by John’s face, he feels just about the same way; his cheeks are warm, his pupils blown and swallowing up the misty-seashore-stone color of his eyes. His lips are kind of the color of Roger’s favorite jam.</p>
<p>Brian lets out a tiny laugh. “So does anyone want to tell me what’s going on?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What’s going on is something of a saga.</p>
<p>Ronnie called SoulFlash back on February 27th<sup>th</sup>. The phone call lasted forty-one minutes and revolved around what Ronnie’s mother refers to as customer support diplomacy—namely, being as polite as possible but forever holding onto the last resort of sobbing disturbingly loudly into the receiver. Fortunately it took minimal fake crying about the unfairness of the situation for Ronnie to see results, and forty-one minutes later there was a file waiting in her email inbox containing a list of every person whose eyes John had seen in the five minutes before he disconnected the call.</p>
<p>The list was long. Five minutes on SoulFlash would grant someone a look into about three thousand pairs of eyes. She had to scroll eight times just to get to the bottom of the list.</p>
<p>Where to start? Maybe by membership type; that might help. The more someone pays for an account, the more access they have. Someone with a cheaper account might struggle to find their soulmate in the first place.</p>
<p>She worked her way through the filters until the list only showed trial and bronze members.</p>
<p>What else? What could prevent someone from finding their soulmate? There could have been an issue like John had. Maybe someone was disconnected early. If she could see what times those people logged off she would be able to narrow it down a little better; the system didn’t show that information, unfortunately.</p>
<p>What else?</p>
<p>She scrolled through the list slowly, scanning the names.</p>
<p>What would prevent someone from connecting with the one person who was perfect for them, who they just found? What would prevent them from not only being able to get their contact information, but from trying to find them in the first place? Why wouldn’t John’s soulmate try to find him?</p>
<p>Her eyes caught on a name and she froze.</p>
<p>Of course. There was only one reason she could really think of, at the end of the day. She would move hell and high heaven if she knew she had a chance to find her soulmate; she would go to the ends of the earth. But maybe, if it was someone she already knew and if she knew that they were never compatible in the first place—</p>
<p>No. That wasn’t right. Everyone deserved a chance, and John more than anyone.</p>
<p>The system didn’t provide contact information. She would need to contact SoulFlash in order to find that, but it was no matter. She already knew how to find Brian May.</p>
<p>She grabbed her coat, jamming her shoes onto her feet before all but running to John’s flat. It wasn’t far, but by the time she got there she was more than out of breath and regretting her skipped gym days earlier that week.</p>
<p>She rapped on the door before leaning one fist against the doorframe, fighting to catch her breath. When nobody answered immediately she knocked again, pounding her fist against the wood.</p>
<p>There was a shuffling sound, and then the door swung open.</p>
<p>“Ronnie?” John asked, wide-eyed. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“I found your soulmate.”</p>
<p>John’s eyes somehow widened even further. “What?”</p>
<p>She nodded. “I found him—it’s a he. And you’re not gonna like this, but—”</p>
<p>“John?” a voice called from further in the flat. “Who is it?”</p>
<p>“It’s just Ronnie,” John called back, and a small, dark-haired man appeared over his shoulder. “She’s a close friend. Ronnie, this is Freddie, from Queen.”</p>
<p>She nodded shortly. “Nice to meet you. I take it you know where Brian is?”</p>
<p>Freddie nodded, a furrow appearing on his brow. “What do you need Brian for, dear?”</p>
<p>“He’s John’s soulmate.”</p>
<p>John’s mouth fell open in shock, before he let out a tiny laugh. “No, that’s not possible. Brian and Freddie are soulmates.”</p>
<p>Freddie squinted at him. “Whatever gave you that idea?”</p>
<p>“Are you not?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“But what about the…” John trailed off, studying Freddie incredulously. Freddie just blinked back. “You’re serious? Who’s his soulmate, then?”</p>
<p>“He never really knew her. They met in daycare, but she passed away not long after. She was sick.”</p>
<p>John frowned. “That’s awful.”</p>
<p>“Yes, it’s tragic. But it just proves he already has a soulmate, darling,” he finished, turning back to Ronnie. “It’s just that it’s not John, nor is it me.”</p>
<p>She shook her head sharply. “We need to seriously clear up some things, then, because that’s not the way it looks.”</p>
<p>“We can head over there now, if you’d like,” John said, already grabbing his keys and ushering Freddie through the door. “He doesn’t live far from here.”</p>
<p>The three of them rushed down the stairs, back in the direction Ronnie had come. They crossed the street quickly, all but running through campus, John leading the way with his long strides until an old brick building came into sight.</p>
<p>“Why do you even think it’s Brian in the first place?” Freddie panted, struggling to keep up in his platforms.</p>
<p>“I requested access to the call records from that night,” she replied. “I got a list of everyone who John had seen right before—”</p>
<p>“What? Wait, what’s going on?”</p>
<p>“I borrowed her SoulFlash account,” John said quickly. They finally reached the building, and he threw open the door before taking the stairs two at a time. “I saw my soulmate, but I wasn’t able to connect with them.”</p>
<p>Freddie stumbled, righting himself quickly. “What?!” he screeched.</p>
<p>“I know. I made a mistake.”</p>
<p>“And you haven’t talked to Roger about this?”</p>
<p>“I told him I saw my soulmate, yeah.”</p>
<p>“But you didn’t elaborate?”</p>
<p>“No. I didn’t think he’d want the details.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Freddie gasped.</p>
<p>They reached the correct floor and speed walked down the corridor toward what was presumably Brian’s room.</p>
<p>“Anyway, I’m trying to narrow down the list,” Ronnie said quickly. “Brian is the only one who makes sense. Why else would someone not even try to find John?”</p>
<p>“It’s not about not wanting to,” Freddie replied.</p>
<p>“I know he’s your friend, but—”</p>
<p>“No, that’s not it.” They reached Brian’s door, and John rapped on it even as he held Freddie’s gaze. “Brian doesn’t <em>have</em> an account. Why would he?”</p>
<p>Ronnie frowned. “But then why did he—”</p>
<p>“He had a free trial. He couldn’t use it, so he gave it to someone else.”</p>
<p>Realization dawned on John’s face, his mouth falling open again. “He gave it to—”</p>
<p>“The one person who makes you forget about your headaches, right?” Freddie rushed, still gasping for breath. “The one who you’ve somehow fit so well with since the beginning. The person who wants you just as badly as you want him, and somehow neither of you actually sat down and thought it through. It’s not Brian, John. Of course it’s not.”</p>
<p>John shook his head slowly, rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. “You mean—”</p>
<p>“It’s not Brian. It never was. It’s—”</p>
<p>The door creaked open, a man appearing in the gap. He peered out with pale eyes from under even paler fringe, his gaze immediately falling on John and John alone. He didn’t seem to notice Ronnie and Freddie where they stood behind him, trying desperately to catch their breath.</p>
<p>“Roger,” John breathed.</p>
<p>Roger shifted on his feet. “John,” he replied, his voice raspy and low. “What are you—”</p>
<p>The question didn’t have a chance to fully leave his lips before John was kissing him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Brian lets out a tiny laugh. “So does anyone want to tell me what’s going on?”</p>
<p><a href="https://grahamcockroach.tumblr.com/post/643210291930398720/squeeze">John ducks forward to kiss Roger again.</a> It’s just a peck, or it should be; he can feel Roger smiling against his mouth and he has to do it again, and then one more time, and then linger for a beat longer just to—</p>
<p>“They’re soulmates,” Freddie sniffles behind them. “Isn’t that sweet?”</p>
<p>“Soulmates,” Roger murmurs against his lips.</p>
<p>John nods, pulling back slightly, his entire world made up of blue. He’s still learning his colors, but he’s just decided that blue is by far his favorite. “SoulFlash,” he says. “February 1<sup>st</sup>. I was using Ronnie’s account. I didn’t get a look at you—it all happened so fast, and I knocked a drink over on my laptop, and then I thought—”</p>
<p>“I wanted to find you,” Roger murmurs. “You have to know that, but at the same time I <em>didn’t</em>. I didn’t want someone to come between you and me, John, but—of course it was you this whole time. Of course it was. Who else could it have been?”</p>
<p>He sounds heartbreakingly earnest and tender, his eyes shining with it, and John’s affection hits him like a truck. He ducks forward to hug him, dragging Roger into his space and holding him close. Roger’s hands fist in the back of his shirt in a vice grip, refusing to let go.</p>
<p>“Well, thank god,” Freddie is blubbering, wiping tears from his eyes. “You two deserve each other more than anyone I’ve ever met. I just can’t put it into words. I’m so—God, hold me, Ronnie. Brian, open that bottle. We need to celebrate!”</p>
<p>Ronnie snorts out a laugh, accepting his hug.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>John wakes the next morning buried in warmth. It’s Roger, and he knows that without looking or reaching for him or even being fully awake. He’d know him anywhere; he’d certainly know him here, laid across John’s chest and grumbling into the crook of his neck.</p>
<p>The first thing he becomes aware of is Roger. He thinks that it’ll probably be like that for the rest of his life. Even when he’s aware of nothing else he’ll be aware of him, always and forever.</p>
<p>He ducks to drag his lips aimlessly across the skin behind Roger’s ear. Roger grumbles again, something that sounds vaguely violent and angry, and then John becomes aware of the rest of his surroundings as well as what woke him in the first place.</p>
<p>Roger’s phone is ringing.</p>
<p>Roger groans again, his hand shooting out from the warm cocoon that is his ridiculously lush down comforter, and gropes for the phone. He misses it on first swipe, and props himself up on his elbow to reach where it’s fallen behind a textbook.</p>
<p>“No, don’t,” John slurs when his movement lets a gust of cold air into their previously warm bedding.</p>
<p>Roger sighs, settling against him, and John resists the urge to purr in contentment.</p>
<p>“What,” Roger says roughly into the phone.</p>
<p>They’re so close they’re practically sharing air. In the quietness of the early morning, Roger and Freddie’s flat still silent and sleepy, John can hear every word through the receiver.</p>
<p><em>“Good morning!” </em>a woman’s voice says, tinny through the phone. <em>“Am I speaking to Brian May?” </em></p>
<p>“Sure,” Roger grumbles.</p>
<p>
  <em>“On behalf of SoulFlash we’re so glad we could help you take advantage of our 28-day guarantee! SoulFlash’s mission is to connect as many happy couples as possible. We’re calling because we’re collecting testimonials from satisfied customers. Would you like to take a brief survey to tell us about the quality of our service?” </em>
</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Roger says succinctly, hanging up the phone without looking and tossing it toward the unoccupied side of the bed.</p>
<p>Despite himself, John laughs. “That was rude,” he says, but he thinks the way his chest is shaking is giving him away.</p>
<p>Roger turns, resting on his chin. “Yeah, well,” he says. “They can make a note on Brian’s file.”</p>
<p>“You’re not even a little grateful?” John teases. “Look at how much they helped. They were so dedicated to us finding each other.”</p>
<p>Roger rolls his eyes, leaning forward to press a sleepy kiss to John’s lips before settling again, his face hidden in the crook of his neck once more.</p>
<p>“I would have found you anyway,” he says, his breath tickling John’s ear.</p>
<p>John just smiles to himself. He revels in the way Roger sighs happily when John wraps his arms around him once more. The flat reverts to its early morning state again: silent, warm, safe and content.</p>
<p>Between one breath and the next he falls back asleep, Roger right there with him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy valentine's day! Let me know what you think &lt;333</p></blockquote></div></div>
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